Dear Charlie,

When Marcus and I started trying to start our family, I joked that if we didn’t have a baby or weren’t pregnant in another year that we would get another dog.

The result: you.

You instantly became a huge part of my healing. You were glued to me. Followed me everywhere. Laid next to me on the couch when another month passed without a baby. You quickly became my baby.

When we got you, we were told you were probably 8-10 years old, so we had no idea how long we’d have you. You quickly showed us some of your insecurities and fears that made our hearts ache for whatever you had been through before we got you. The first day you wouldn’t even walk through our house as you didn’t know how to walk on hardwood floors.

You were stubborn. You never listened to Marcus, and he often compared you to someone else he knew who doesn’t do anything they didn’t want to do…(me). Just like our decision to get you. We debated all night if it was the best thing for Louie, but I could not give it up. I knew I saw a sweet, gentle soul that deserved a good life. You were our dog the very next day.

And you were exactly that. Sweet. Gentle. Lazy. All you wanted in your last years were a comfy place to lay and someone to pet you. And I think we gave you that.

But my sweet boy, you gave us so much more. You were the answer to Louie’s anxiety problems. Louie went from an underweight, kenneled, pulling hair out of his tail dog to a fat and happy dog that never needed to be kenneled again.

For me, you gave me comfort. For me, you gave me love. For me, you walked with me through some of the worst times.

Everyone that met you fell in love instantly. Your gentle soul was so easy to love. Even through all of your appointments, blood draws, etc. recently, doctors always asked, “Is he always this calm?”

Yes.

I find it ironic that you came to us when we couldn’t get pregnant, and you left in the third trimester of my first pregnancy. We didn’t get you long, but you filled a hole in my heart that will never be filled by any other dog or human.

I miss you already buddy. I hope you have found some peace.

All my love,

Betsy

Dear No One,

As we move farther into this pregnancy, I realize my concern for my two boys grows every day.

Yes I am feeling the sadness of thinking about it not being just Dax and me all day, every day. We have such a deep attachment to one another, I can hardly imagine having that with another child. I know every mother with more than one child can and has reassured me that I will instantly feel my heart grow, and I’ll love our new life as a family of four. While this is on my heart a lot, it’s really not what’s been troubling me.

Daxon was adopted. We all know that. We openly talk about it and his birth parents. We will continue to talk about it with him as it is part of his story. But then I already hear myself and everyone around me talking about our second son’s genetics. For example, our sweet baby boy is measuring a week ahead right now. The ultrasound technician told us he has “very skinny, long feet” and will be “very tall”…”just like his Daddy.”

Somehow I felt very torn at these words. “Just. Like. His. Daddy.” Daxon will never hear that when it comes to his looks. At first, I thought, “we shouldn’t say stuff like that. It’ll be hard for Dax to hear.” Then I thought, “Well it’s not fair to our second son to not talk about where he comes from.” There I felt it. Split between my son who was adopted and biological son.

Honestly, I hate even admitting that out loud. I don’t think of them as my “son who was adopted” and “biological son.” They are my sons. But either way, doesn’t every mother worry about every little thing when it comes to their children. I’m normal, right?? Right?! (Normal may not be the word most of my family would use to describe me.) But I’m going with normal in this situation.

Anyway, as hard as that is for me to admit, I took time to talk myself through it. And here’s what I came up with. Daxon won’t hear about his physical attributes matching with ours, but he will (and already does!) hear about how he looks like his birth parents. That’s just the truth. Our second son will hear about how he looks like us. Also just part of his story. They will both hear how they DO or SAY things “just like Daddy.” They will both be loved. By us. Unconditionally. For the rest of their lives. (Like it or not, I’m not going anywhere. Hope they find me future daughter-in-laws that also want me around…a lot!)

I guess what I realized is that it’s okay. Daxon may ask questions or feel sad someday when random people tell us “how tall our boys will be” or when he hears how his brother looks just like his Daddy. But we will be there to answer questions and use those opportunities to teach him even more about adoption and his story. It is okay. These boys will never think of each other as “my adopted brother” or “the biological brother”. They will be brothers. Just brothers. They will learn what it means to protect each other and respect each other’s stories.

Adoption is part of our family. IVF is a part of our family. We are a beautiful mix, and they will both hear about how hard we worked to get to them. My boys. My sweet Mama’s boys. Forever.

All my love,

Betsy

Dear No One,

I’m sure you’ve all desperately been missing my posts! Right??! Let’s just say the first trimester was…rough.

But hello second trimester!! I am now 15 weeks pregnant and feeling so much better. I feel like a real human again. But I’m not here to talk pregnancy.

I struggled for the last couple months to know how to keep advocating for infertility and being a support system to others now that I am pregnant. Honestly, I knew that in my deepest struggle, I got nothing from people telling me about how they got through infertility and all the beautiful children they have now. I know that you don’t want me to tell you that “it will happen for you!!” Because you know what?? I don’t know what your story will be like in the end. Will you do IUI? Seven rounds of IVF? Donated embryo? Surrogate? Private adoption? Foster care? No children? I. Don’t. Know.

I wish my experience of getting pregnant on our first round of IVF could be the hope everyone needs. But I know better. I see women who are on their sixth round of IVF. I know women who were days behind me and miscarried. I know people who can’t afford anymore treatments. Or adoption. Or emotionally afford to put their heart out to hope at all. Somehow, we’ve turned into the “lucky ones.”

Believe me when I say, I don’t take one day of being pregnant for granted. Even in the hardest days, I would do this all over again to be here now.

So I’m here to say, I’m still here. I will still listen to you. But I also understand if talking to me with my growing belly is too difficult. I’m still here. I’m praying for you. I’m constantly thinking of you all. If you can use our story for hope, great! If you feel jealous, I’ve been there. I don’t judge you.

Keep your head up. Find support that is helpful to you. Know that I’m always here to talk. But know that I understand if I am not that person for you (at least for now).

All my love,

Betsy

Dear Marcus,

Happy fifth anniversary! There is nowhere I’d rather be today than spending time with you and Daxon at home. Although five years ago was one of my favorite days ever.

We both know, though, that five years didn’t come without challenges. I find it ironic that our anniversary falls during National Infertility Awareness Week as our infertility has been our biggest challenge the last four years.

While five years doesn’t seem like much to others, the growth we have made is immeasurable. You know when I’m getting hangry before I even do, and you know I am not capable of making decisions (big or small) when I get like that. You understand my (somewhat large) emotions. You know me. You understand me sometimes more than I understand myself. And I am a complicated person, so that is saying a lot.

We are not the people we were five years ago because we have grown. Together. We could have just as easily grown apart. But you have shown me that we are better together. We are stronger together. It may not all be “Instagram perfection,” but I think our growth has come from those not-so-perfect moments.

Thank you for standing by me. Every day. Through everything. I’m not sure there is anyone else in this world that could love and forgive me as easily and beautifully as you do.

I feel like this is really just the beginning of some of the best years of our lives. I can’t wait to watch our family grow and enjoy our crazy, chaotic, amazing life. Together.

All my love,

Betsy

Dear No One,

I am sure you have heard or thought a thousand times, “someone else has it worse.” While I think it is extremely important to remember those less fortunate than us and to provide assistance any way we can, I think it is equally as important to take care of yourself.

I think the saying “someone else has it worse” is meant to be uplifting, but I think it can also be damaging. Have you ever felt like you don’t deserve to feel the way you do? Or that you shouldn’t feel that way? I felt that way for a long time with infertility. Honestly, I still have days that I think I don’t deserve to be sad about infertility.

I think people try to be strong and hold it all together. I think they don’t believe that they deserve to feel sad. You know what? Do it. Feel sad. Take the time to grieve. Allow yourself to just feel. You deserve that time.

I honestly believe it is healthier to allow yourself to feel what you feel. The less you try to push it down, the more you can begin to heal.

I know people dealing with a loss of a family member or friend. I know people dealing with cancer. I know people dealing with postpartum depression. Everyone is fighting a battle.

My nephew was diagnosed with nephrotic syndrome over a year ago, and he has had multiple relapses in just a year. Every time he relapses, he starts a round of steroids to get his kidneys working better. While he is fortunate that he responds well to steroids, it still comes with many side effects that take a toll on not only him, but my sister and her family.

I have been extremely emotional and have constant ups and downs about our infertility right now. I don’t know how much I can blame on the IVF meds and changing hormones, but it has been a struggle recently. My nephew, though, recently had another relapse, and I instantly thought, “How can I be sad about infertility when my nephew (and sister) is dealing with something so much worse?” Then I talked to my sister. She made a similar comment except she felt as though she didn’t deserve to be that sad. She knows others who have been or are going through something worse, in her mind.

But then she said something that opened my eyes. She said, “Tomorrow I will get on all the schedules of meds and organize everything. Today, I am going to let myself be sad.” Let myself.

I realized that we are all made to believe that “someone has it worse,” which leads us to believe our feelings aren’t as important. I’m sure you’ve all also heard, “Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” See? Everyone is fighting a battle. Including you. While I try to live by this saying, I also think we should be kind to ourselves because your battle is just that, a battle. It may not look like everyone’s battles. But who is to say that yours isn’t worthy of all you are feeling?

Honestly, this post is mainly for me. I needed to write this down, so I can come back and read it whenever I forget that I’m allowed to feel sad. Or happy. Or angry. I am allowed to feel, no matter what those feelings are. And so are you. Give yourself a break. You are stronger than you think, but you are also allowed to feel broken sometimes.

All my love,

Betsy

Dear No One,

It is my favorite time of year! Yes, I am that annoyingly joyful person listening to Christmas music in October (and July. And March. Ok maybe year round). I love Christmas! The lights. The snow. The time spent with family. The fact that people just seem happier and nicer. The food. The trees. The decor.

Ok, have I made it clear enough how much I love Christmas? Good.

Now let me take you back to December 2014. We decided we were ready to start our family earlier that year. I was watching what I was eating, stopped drinking alcohol, taking prenatals and clomid. I was doing everything right to prepare my body for a baby.

I was so sure we’d get pregnant in the next couple months and by the next Christmas we’d have a little baby! Or at least be pregnant.

If you know me well, you know I’m a planner. I planned everything. How we’d tell our different family members. How I’d tell Marcus (there may have been a banner and shirt involved). Etc. etc. I planned every little thing.

Basically I was so excited for what was to come. My eyes were big and my heart naive.

In March, our world crumbled and my plans were instantly ripped from my hands.

I won’t get into details but the next 9 months were dark. Everything hurt. We got to Christmas 2015. No baby. No sign of a pregnancy in the near future.

That was a hard Christmas. My usual joy was no where to be found. I shut down and really only survived with the help of sarcasm and alcohol.

It was a month later I had a dream about adopting a baby and finally reached out to someone who is also in the infertility world that I allowed myself to start healing and rewrite my plans.

I know I don’t write that often, and I really wish I could just be a funny, witty blogger, but as Marcus would tell you, I’m not that funny. This blog is a therapeutic outlet for me and I write when my heart is pulling me to write. I wish this blog could be bright and bubbly and full of recipes and funny stuff my kid does, but infertility is not bright.

Infertility is dark. It strips you of so many more things than I can begin to explain. It took Christmas away from me that year, and I will cherish every one even more now that Daxon is here. I could not call myself an advocate for infertility if I weren’t honest about it.

So why am I writing this today? I am thinking of every woman who thought they’d have a baby or be pregnant this Christmas, and they aren’t. I pray you have more strength than me to reach out for support and deal with your emotions better than I did.

Whether you read this silently to yourself or reach out to me or someone else, I am here for you. I see you. Your pain is real. Allow yourself to feel it. Then remember you have already made it this far. You are making it through this moment right now. Use this strength and confidence to make it through the next hard moment. You may not be able to control your future, but you can control how you allow yourself to heal and move forward.

You are strong enough.

All my love,

Betsy